Ten years ago. Central Khirn.

It was in the tempestuous Kingdom of Aslofidor that everything went on the path to hell. Just ten years ago. Many things had happened that made the year 632 important to the historical calendar of the Age of Sar'lai. None more so than the one that saw our dear protagonist fall into the spotlight. After two years and three months prior to this day, the rebellion of Duke Barat Oudet IV against the King had finally reached a critical point.

It had begun at six in the morning when the sun peaked over the crest of the rolling hills to the west and bathed the grasslands of Vucan in a golden aura. Ten thousand men and women awoke with eagerness in their hearts and righteousness on their minds. Duty-bound to the royalty they had sworn their lives to, for better or worse. Two forces, five thousand souls each, encamped and prepared to do war and release the tension of delay. It came as no surprise to those in command of the two armies that this particular day took so long to arrive. Political mires, strategical logistics, hampering roadway skirmishes, shadowy espionage, and general incompetence from those not accustomed to their sudden war-time roles were at the forefront of the rebellion so far. The known body count was thus as little as seven dozen, most of the deaths stemming from injuries rather than outright battle.

As it was, only three "battles" had occurred, and even those could not truly constitute actual warfare due to the sheer lack of manpower on either side. The King's drought of foreign allies and the splintering of the nation through the middle due to the tactical positioning of the Duke's own territory made mustering of forces for both a disastrously slow affair. In fact, many of the peasantries would not have been wrong to assume that this rebellion was merely a heated debate of principles between the Duke and the King. Anything less than a full-blown civil war over what the Duke called: "the worst crimes imaginable against God Almighty" and "the purest examples of how corruptively evil King Aslofidor is." Accusations that had little known evidence besides the occasional public character of the old king, but Duke Oudet was a man far more than capable of rallying the people to his causes.

And now it had come at last.

Though neither army was anywhere near the full capacity of volunteers or draftees from across the kingdom, the battle would be fought. The first major conflict in the rebellion and the one that could ensure victory or destruction for the rebellion.

Gíla Arsinoe was, personally, for neither outcome. Instead, she was prepared to endure whatever was to happen after this battle. Unlike those that she called countrymen only by virtue of having been born in their land, Gíla held no explicit political or ideological loyalty to the King or rebel Duke, nor to their extended families. She was, instead, fascinated by the overall intricacies of the entire situation and particularly of those who had created it. One thing she had noticed the closer this day came was that the rebels' excitement for what was to come was palpable. On the day itself, it was almost visible in the crisp light of the sun.

For most, this was going to be the first-ever taste of battle in their lives, and yet very few expressed nervousness or remorse about that fact. Many of them had previously been scholars or farmers or bakers or merchants who either had been drafted or willingly took up arms. Nothing one would expect to be experienced in combat beyond the necessary training from the men-at-arms. Gíla herself was among that population and while she was endlessly excited for the future, the present made her stomach knot up. She was inexperienced in anything outside the academics and hunting wildlife, yet had the inkling that hunting animals in the forest or facing off against a wild wolf pack was nothing like taking the life of another sentient mortal, though she was equally self-assured that she could do it when necessary.

She wondered how the loyalists felt in their camp and whether they were so excited to engage in the coming battle. Would they feel it justified to slay their kin? How had the veterans of both sides dealt with such things in their own encounters of action? When the King had to settle border disputes that effectively lost him any chance of foreign allies in his lifetime, they were there on the field. Protecting their King from conquerers or taking land for him to conquer. Now they were the old elite fighting against themselves. Would they fight still with such ferocity as they once had? Or would they too succumb to shock, despair, fear, and emptying of the bowels?

Gíla was confident there was going to be plenty of that, perhaps even alongside the glory and honor of the stories. Of course, she could only be assumptively so. But that lack of true certainty had forced her to dive head-first into an obsession and a need to investigate. It was primarily the insurgents that had gained her vetted interest. Their personal stories, their reasonings for joining the rebellion. Being so united on the exterior and yet so divided when that surface was peeled apart to reveal the underlying layers. Many in the rebellion viewed this as either a dangerous inquisition or simply another riddle of her people to either ignore or ridicule.

"Are the rest of your people so damned odd, bear-maiden?" someone had asked her nearly a year ago.

She had chortled and explained to the man her people, externally ignoring the abrasiveness of the words: "Your people." Abrasive but significant.

She was not human, a fact many of her compatriots enjoyed reminding her of. They called her Drayheller, but there was no actual name for her species. Not an original one they called themselves. They had never needed one, far unlike the nomenclature necessity of mankind. They were creatures existing outside the accepted veils of humans with the traits of mankind and ursine seamlessly blended into one. Humanoids in the sense of being bipedal with opposable thumbs, but beast-like for being completely covered in fur and tough hide, and bearing the genetics of all known bear-kind in the world. She had explained to the man that, in spite of their appearance, they were typically docile people who were content with pursuing the world's knowledge and engaging in traditional nomadic practices. Though, appearances created a false impression and for an understandable rationale.

Subsequently known as the rebellion's bear-maiden, Gíla was easily as tall as the tallest men in the camp, standing at a solid six-foot-five. She bore a heavily-muscled black-furred physique akin to that of the tribes from the Veorisian mountains, though she lacked any visible sexual dimorphism like those among humanity. In fact, the only reason anyone knew that she was a female at all was that - other than being somewhat smaller than the males of her species - she had told them and had an adequately feminine voice. The features of her face were, according to the humans, akin to the black bears of the kingdom's forests. Some even called it surprisingly pleasant to look at. Furthermore, like all other Drayheller, her arms ended in clawed hands that could double as weapons themselves, along with whatever armament she wielded at the time. Her feet were far too wide and equally clawed to allow any sort of footwear. In a world of humanity, she was the most interesting thing ever and the most distrusted thing ever.

This solitude among thousands was troubling for the bear-maiden, although it did grant her a respite to take in the details of the temporary settlement. Around the camp, the fires of the night and the restless died down to small flickers of embers and thin plumes of translucent smoke. Blue and white chequered tents opened up to birth dozens of plate-armored knights and thousands more rank-and-file soldiers. Pristine banners with the golden eagle sigil of the Duke stood proud in the light morning wind. Knight horses trotted through the growing crowds, equally armored or dressed in thick caparisons emblazoned like the banners. It was a painting that was quickly being given a fresh coat of paint.

She smiled at it and blinked the images to memory before turning to the sound of powerful voices. Close to her, the soldiers of her guild armed and armored themselves while listening to the virtuous rhetoric of the wandering priests. White-robed quadruples of men shuffling in tandem with their leather-bound gold-leaf tomes and red-robed crones hobbling on elaborate canes in their group centers.

"Lord, God Almighty, Most Holy and Highest of Virtues, send these warriors of Your holy land to battle with the blessings of kinship and strength. Allow them to prosper over the wicked ways of their foes and bring about a new golden age for these lands. Lend them Your Sword to burn away the sins of the corrupt. Lend them Your Ear so that their cries are not drowned in the mire of blood to come. Lend them Your Hand so that the fallen souls can reach You in Heaven Above and rest in Your loving grace. In God Almighty's name, sarem."

A practiced speech, resounding with a choir of voices strong with their belief. She once again cemented the images into remembrance. Like the camp itself, her comrades accepting the blessed gifts of the priests was almost like a painting with the glowing rays of the sunlight above them. As if their God was actually with them at that moment.

Soon the air was filled with the sweet stench of holy oils the rebels slathered onto their weapons. This inevitably and unfortunately mingled with the stink of body waste of mortals and animals, and the aroma of last meals. It seemed that bacon and eggs were the dishes of choice for such people on their way to violence. Simple to eat, easy to hold down.

Gíla flickered away from the observations upon the sequential cries of ten horns and began a last-minute inspection of the integrity of her armor. The Duke was a man who prided himself on the ability of his army to match the King's own and thus procured his army a collection of "as-new" sets of stylized surcoats, mail hauberks, gambesons, sabatons, greaves, bracers, and nasal helmets. Each soldier was expected, of course, to provide his or her own garments to wear underneath the armor. Gíla's own set was modified yet limited for her unique stature, being primarily resized bracers, greaves, a surcoat bearing the coat of arms of the Duke, and a padded gambeson with her own pale undergarments. The toughness of her Drayheller hide had made the need for mail or even leather jerkin an unnecessary expense, which she was more than happy to oblige with as it meant someone else could likely use what she could not.

"You think you're ready, bear-maiden?" asked a voice as deep as ocean trenches and the volcanic vent within them.

Gíla clenched her jaw at the sound and looked up from the fastenings of her left bracer. It was a voice that instilled the type of terrified reaction that could lead to the creation of tyrants. None in her guild could stand it for long. Yet, she forced a smile as she took in the familiar sight of Gervais Tamas, one of her lieutenants and perhaps the most pious, albeit stoically realistic soldiers in the camp. Armored in the worn unembellished steel plate of an older knight, Tamas was a grizzled bulldog with a rough battle-damaged face and a build to match. In another life, he likely would have been a bishop or cardinal, though his voice certainly would have attributed him more to fire-and-brimstone than anything inspirational. As it was, his calling was the sword and he had sworn it to the rebel Duke for the same reasons the rebellion was called into action.

"God is great that he did," some would say in the quietest hours. "The Duke would'a lost had Tamas been opposing him, no doubt."

"As ready as I can be," Gíla finally said in as straight a tone as she could manage, filing the remembered words away.

She looked at a pack of nearby guildmates finishing the application of their oils and chattering about the deluge of righteous blood they were set to wash in. She remembered them from a year ago telling the tale of how they worked jointly on a wheat farm dreaming of owning their own lands.

"But if you ask the others the same question, you'd say I was more ready to pack up and leave," she muttered.

Gervais narrowed his steel-gray eyes and shared her gaze at the nearby group. "Do you have a problem with their enthusiasm?"

"No, sir," Gíla quickly covered, returning to confirm that her left bracer was secure. "Just comparing my readiness to theirs and...how they probably view it."

Gervais clicked his tongue before he stared over to the far left, eyeing something through the tents and crowds the bear-maiden could not see. His permanent frown somehow grew when he returned his gaze to Gíla. "You're going to want to get yourself situated with your new equipment soon."

Gíla glanced up to the lieutenant. "Is my weapon ready?"

Gervais shook his head. "Not the one you were expecting. Captain Reynfred wants you on the backlines of the guild today, right side."

Gíla's eyes flashed with confusion for a moment as the last strap of her bracer was pulled snugly. A soupy mixture of relief and despair filled her as the words fully settled in her mind. "What do you mean?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "Aren't I fighting with the shield wall?"

Gervais shrugged and clicked his tongue again, "Reynfred's call. He wants you reinforcing the guild's bulwark in case the front fails and we get into a true scrap. Protecting the guild's flank. Ax work."

"So I won't see the actual battle?"

Gervais shrugged again, the movement scraping the plates of his armor to an uncomfortable sound. "Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how well we can keep our act together. In either case, get your ass moving."

An unexpected shift in plans, but I'd best make the most of it.

The thunder of footsteps and resounding psalms from the accompanying priests served as an orchestra for the march. Beat after beat of metallic grinding and stomping. Five thousand moving as one to meet in the middle against another five thousand. Gíla's wandering eyes took in the details of such a force and those of the distant but growing mass of kingsmen to the north. How different they are to us. Where the King's army was comprised of five brigades of one thousand, the Duke's army was formed out of twenty-five guilds of two hundred soldiers. Less organized, more dispersed, but less mechanical and far more human. Only the shield walls were truly what they shared, though it was the rebels who measured it as a guild. Uncounted among the rebel numbers were knight squires, serfs, priests, horses such as coursers and larger destriers, and the commander of the army who served outside the guilds entirely. The bear-maiden broke her analytical examination of the army she fought for to look at that person with momentary awe. Mille the Wolf, a stout woman riding by in pale-gray plate with a helm fashioned after her namesake. A bastard sword of unique one-edged design was sheathed across her back.

Gíla returned to her examination, the routine nature of it quelling the rising fear in her belly. The bear-maiden's guild was, perhaps appropriately for being supported by someone like Gervais Tamas, one of the more passionate and faithful of the rebel's twenty-five. For them, God was their sword seeking to undo the crimes of who they had dubbed: "the False King" or "the Corrupted Monarch." As she moved in line with such people, she took note of their banner of arms high above the crowd. It was appropriate, given everything else. In the ocean of steel, her companions were identified by a square flag merging the Duke's golden eagle sigil on the blue-white chequered field and their own. A golden eye surrounded by a radiant circle of sunbeams, ever staring outward in endless vigilance. The soldiers of her guild, and some outside of it, simply called it "the eye," which many took to calling the guild entirely instead of their official name of 'the Blessed Harbingers." Gíla much rather preferred her name of shî, or "the other," for it was completely unlike any other sigil in the army, which were mainly comprised of animal motifs and symbolism.

After some time, the young Drayheller further took note of the field that would soon be a battleground. The verdant, green landscape was smile-wide with no visible forests or civilization to be seen even on the horizon. Its earth was firm and baked warm by the rising sun, and the sky was clear of any clouds, providing good traction and clear visibility. Will these factors give some ease in the battle to avoid mistakes and excessive carnage? The bear-maiden had recognized this as a theme in some of the books she had read a few years prior. Of course, those books were of battles ages past when mortals fought with stones and bronze rather than iron and steel. When infantry formations were a momentary thing rather than an established facet of war.

She briefly recalled the tale of Acominatus, a Frei warlord who had engaged his mortal nemesis Stauricius, a Ger warlord, in the Desert of Black Glass. Two armies of grotesque size engaged in brutal combat with no structure or plan beyond winning at all costs. The sands were soaked with blood, and barbarians hollered as they slipped and tumbled over one another. In the end, it was a phyric victory for Acominatus who had personally slain the Ger but lost almost the entirety of his army to the chaos and drudgery of the battle.

Gíla was curious if the guildless herald of the army proper, Mille the Wolf, would not be so inclined to a slaughter. According to army rumor, it was her voice alone that suggested waiting until the troops could muster their full strength, only to be silenced by her masters in favor of an immediate attack. An action King Aslofidor was all too happy to meet. Perhaps that attempt at delay would allow her some foresight in preventing needless bloodshed.

"Bear-maiden, I thought you were working front lines for the battle?"

Gíla turned her snapped aware gaze to the left of her toward the source of the question. Gold-green eyes met her own vibrant gold, and she sighed with a small grin. Of all the soldiers in the guild, Alden Halstead had to be the youngest and certainly the most energetic. No more than sixteen years of age, Alden was merely a farmer's boy who just learned how to pick up a blade and had been training under the men-at-arms for the past two years until he was allowed to fight. He was as bright-eyed as he was brightly-haired as a result, driven by the legends of the knights fighting in the Duke's rebellion and somehow held more optimism than anyone else Gíla had encountered thus far. More importantly, he was one of the few to actually attempt to really talk with the Drayheller and learn about her people.

"I got moved back by Commander Reynfred," she answered with a thin veil over her biting tone at the demotion. "Wants me to reinforce the guild's bulwark."

Alden's face scrunched. "I picked you for one of the heavy hitters. You'd be a monster against any defense the King could throw up."

Gíla snorted and offered a defeated shrug. "That's what I assumed too. I'm disappointed, but...I suppose it does give me a chance to see how the battle affects the others back here with us."

The young boy nodded and looked at the numbers walking behind them for a brief moment, as did the bear-maiden, curious as to what he was looking at. A banner of more mixed sigils fluttered in the air. The Duke's eagle and the guild's green dragon, both creatures facing each other on the chequered blue-white field.

"I bet you'll get lots of good stuff," Alden squeaked as he looked back to the bear-maiden. "What'd you say you were? Wait, no I got it...how'd you put it?"

"Documentarist."

Alden snapped his fingers. "That! Documentarist. Big job. Big word. Is that a common role of your people?"

"Yes, it is. What I am doing specifically isn't that common, however. My people aren't exactly fighters. Most tend to avoid it."

"What makes you so different?" he asked.

"Not mu-" she stopped and hummed gutturally, and then said: "..An obsession with what makes humans act the way they do."

The bear-maiden missed whatever the boy said in response, briefly shifting her gaze to a passing horse and another following it, both mounted by sterling knights. One stout and thick, the other thin and lithe. Their badges marked them as guild lieutenants both, fully dressed in the shining steel plate armor of the army's elite veterans. In line with the sigil of the rebel Duke, their helms had been designed to resemble eagles with beak visors and wings on either side of the helm's face and various other embellishments that made them more serviceable as ceremonial than practical armor.

"Them knights appear mighty, don't they?" stated Alden, his voice spiced with awe at the sight of the armored spectacles. "Can't see their faces, but I bet that big-set fellow is Zane the Colossus. I heard he personally slew one-hundred men in his heyday. Back when he served the King. He was said to be one of his most loyal. An executioner almost. The King must've done something really bad after all if Zane fights with us."

One hundred. Like the Great Raider Kerularios, slayer of the serpent men. "Let's hope he can keep that zeal for us should the need arise," Gíla murmured.

Alden reached over with his hand and patted the Drayheller on her back. "Ha, well I guess we don't have to worry whether he can. Not when we have the bear-maiden watchin' out for us! You'll slay...two-hundred! I'm sure of it."

"Let's just hope the others do their part and keep us from getting fucked from behind," said a man to Alden's left. Gíla examined him like she did all others, her eyes serving as scrying orbs for every minute detail that mattered. He was a broad-shouldered fellow with a bush for a beard and short gray-flecked hair, older than Alden by at least thirty years. His face, wrinkled and bagged, told of a haunted story and a desire for it to end. On his back ran a sheathed longsword, much like how Mille had hers. Gíla recalled his name as Goscelin Nihlu but knew nothing else of him.

What is your story, old man?

"They'll do right by us," squawked the young boy, his fist tightening to white knuckles. "They got the whole soul of the rebellion with 'em. I saw it. You had to have too, right Gos? Chanting and prayin' with the priests, riling each other up with boasts. They got our backs. Ain't gonna let no stinkin' loyalists sneak up on us. Not that it would matter anyway. We got the bear-maiden with us!"

Such optimism, Gíla judged as she cast an admiring gaze at the young boy's brightness.

The battle had begun in standard fashion.

Constructed out of two lines each, the shield walls of the King and the rebel Duke formed and began to march upon each other, shouting their battle cries. Archers on either side naturally attempted to stymy the approaches but only succeeded in wounding some and killing none. Once the walls were nearly three spears' length away from each other, they charged. Wood and iron clashed as a symphony in the moment of collision. The front lines of the six guilds directly behind the walls rushed to position as the breakers, each one armed with a greatsword, pike, or halberd to pull, smash, or crack.

Gíla watched with wide eyes as the violence erupted from such a collection of stories and fates. Three hundred against three hundred, defenders and breakers, men and women. Stamina was low, as to be predicted from such conscripts and volunteers lacking any combat experience. Appropriately, attackers on the front lines were frequently rotated to allow rest and recuperation, a method of preserving army structure put into motion by the veterans who rode by on their horses. Minutes that felt like days passed without much change, aside from a few deaths here and there.

"God, I just want to kill someone already," the bear-maiden heard repeatedly from those in front of her and behind her.

Gíla mused again on the enthusiasm and turned to Alden, whose face had scrunched up again. "You okay, little Halstead?" she asked him in a motherly tone.

"I guess," he replied. "Lot of waiting, I suppose. Not much action for us in the back here, right? The archers aren't firing anymore, and it doesn't look like anyone's coming up the flanks. Not much use for us 'cept for a show, I reckon right now. I wonder-"

"Battles are determined by who breaks first," interrupted Goscelin. "The walls are a good tester of that while also serving as a solid first line of defense. And the archers are afraid to hit their own men. Archers are good for a distance, defending against a siege. Even times like this, if the commanders don't mind potentially killing their own."

"And how do you know all that?" asked Gíla, pursing her lips with interest.

"I read," he answered. "Eventually one of the walls will shatter and the real fight will begin. To win or to survive. By that point, we might see the archers lose their care and begin raining arrows on us all. Maybe the mounted knights will divide themselves up and strike at the flanks or each other. Maybe it'll all descend into a maddened savagery to kill the most people."

"...You're making that up. Devil take you that you read," Alden laughed as he slapped the older man on the back. "All the time I've known you the past year, I've never seen you read."

Goscelin offered something resembling a smirk. "I read, little Halstead. Just not in front of people. Reading is a peaceful thing, and people aren't peaceful."

"So do you think this is really the one deciding battle like everyone is saying it is, mister strategist?" Gíla asked.

"No," Goscelin answered again. "No, the King and the Duke have far more meat to throw onto the butcher's board. I just hope to live through this one and see that bastard pay for what he's done." What has he done?

"Oy, would you lot shut up?" said someone in front of them. Or perhaps to the side of them.

"Yeah. We're waiting for the call to charge and ain't fixing to miss it," said another.

"Yeah!" spat a third, this one most certainly in front as she turned around to glare at Goscelin and the young boy. Her sheepish face was cracked with long-gone pox and dotted with warts.

"We're only talkin' to pass the time," Alden said in a small voice.

The third bared chipped teeth in something Gíla assumed was meant to be a snarl, "Pass the time by's shutting up! All that yapping is going to make us deaf and miss the moment we've been waiting two years for. The order to kill those bastards and send 'em to God Almighty's judgment!"

The surrounding masses briefly cheered.

Once the face of the third had turned away, Alden piped up with: "But being deaf won't be a problem. If there's a call to charge, won't you know by everyone else in the army...you know...movin'? Would be hard to miss unless you're blind too."

The third turned around again with frustration in her expression and a certain type of harmful intent in her eyes. Gíla found that her hand had instinctively clenched the haft of her ax and her biceps had tensed in anticipation for a forward shunting of her weight to knock her down.

But the path to hell was set like the sudden unexpected checkmate in a game of chess.

Gíla had no idea where it had come from. Neither did Goscelin or anyone else she would ask in the coming months. In an instant, there was a resounding crack of thunder, a bright flash of brilliant white that enveloped everything, and when it had cleared, both walls had shattered completely. None were dead from the event, save for those already cut down in the fighting. Those quickest to their bearings slowly rose up to their feet, stunned and woozy. There was confusion, screaming, swearing, and praying between the two armies. Regards were shared and hands tightened on weapons, sweat forming on the brows of every man and woman in the guilds.

She looked at Alden and saw his energized fear. Then to Goscelin, who met her eyes with his own awareness of what was happening. And she saw the sickening smile forming on his face.

"Gos-" she managed before the battle erupted.

In moments, ten thousand engaged each other. Gíla was pushed ahead by the rushing guild behind her, quickly losing track of the young boy and Goscelin who vanished in the horde of armored meat. She cried out, trying in vain to wade through the masses only to be pushed deeper into the carnage. She thrashed and flailed, knocking several down and away with brutish power. Only a few seconds went by before she was finally driven into something of a clearing if it could be called such a thing. Gíla fell to her knees as she struggled to regain her breath, her heart pounding with an overwhelming influx of confusion and panic.

What happened? No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Mille, control them. We're not Acominatus! No.no...don't panic. Breathe. This is what you knew could happen...chaos. Accept it. Move. Move!

She ushered an annoyed growl and pressed the head of her ax into the soft grassy earth to rise up to her feet, but nearly tumbled back down just as quickly. The weapon snapped in half from the jolting displacement of her weight, now useless and ruined in the dirt.

"Oh, you are...th...damnit!" she moaned and tried once again to rise up. Halfway the attempt was completed before she shook at the knees and tumbled down, her face smashing into a patch of pebbles.

Another annoyed growl. Why did she suddenly feel so weak? Why now? Get up! Planting her hands on the grass and digging her claws into the dirt, the bear-maiden finally pushed herself up and remained standing on nearly buckling legs. Slowing her breathing, Gíla stared out at what surrounded her like red ocean waves. Violence. Gore. Savagery. Brutality. She would not run from it, for she had sworn herself to this path, to see it through and take part as a member of the catalyst of change for better or worse. Yet, that feeling in her belly. It was venomous and a roar of stomach-knotted emotion erupted from her chest, echoing in the air.